^Florence  ®arle  Coatee 


THE  UNCONQUERED  AIR  AND  OTHER 

POEMS. 
POEMS. 

MINE   AND   THINE. 
LYRICS   OF    LIFE. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE    UNCONQUERED    AIR 
AND   OTHER   POEMS 


THE  UNCONqUERED 
AIR 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


FLORENCE  EARLE  COAXES 


BOSTON   AND  NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

fflbe  Bitoerlibe  prc##  Cambriboe 


COPYRIGHT,    IQI2,  BY   FLORENCE   EARLE  COATES 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  November  iqia 


SECOND  IMPRESSION,  DECEMBER,   IQI2 


CONTENTS 


THE  UNCONQUERED  AIR  ............  J- 

WHY  DID  YOU  GO  ?  ..............  £ 

ODE  TO  SILENCE        ..............  6 

THE  POETRY  OF  EARTH     ............  g 

HOW  WONDERFUL  IS  LOVE!  ..........      .  g 

HIS  FACE      .................  II 

LULLABY      .................  13 

DEATHLESS  DEATH  —  IN  MEMORY  OF  RICHARD  WATSON 

GILDER     ..............      ...  14 

THE  "UNFINISHED"  SYMPHONY  .........  17 

IN  THE  TOWN  A  WILD  BIRD  SINGING    .......  l8 

ROBERT  BROWNING     .............  2O 

&ASTRE   ..................  22 

SONG  —  MY  LOVE  IS  FAIRER  THAN  THE  TASSELED  CORN  24 
THE  TOMB  SAID  TO  THE  ROSE  —  AFTER  THE  FRENCH  OF 

VICTOR  HUGO  ...............  25 

EXALTATION  —  AFTER  THE  FRENCH  OF  VICTOR  HUGO     .  26 

CENDRILLON    ................  2J 

ODE  ON  THE  CORONATION  OF  KING  GEORGE  V   ....  28 

BETTER  TO  DIE     ...............  33 

YESTERDAY       ................  34 


vi  CONTENTS 

CUPID  AND  THE  MUSES 36 

LAST  NIGHT  I  DREAMED 37 

LOVE  IS  PASSING 38 

THE  HOSPITAL 40 

ONCE  IN  A  STILL,  SEQUESTERED  PLACE 43 

THE  ORCHESTRAL  LEADER 44 

IN  LONELINESS  —  ISEULT  OF  BRITTANY 45 

UNPARDONED 47 

EVERY  NIGHT  AT  MARATHON 48 

MOTHER  MARY 50 

SO  YOU  LOVE  ME 51 

THE  BAND  OF  THE  "  TITANIC  " 52 

WINTER-SONG 54 

EROS 55 

DAWN 56 

THE  RETURN  OF  PROSERPINE 58 

A  SEEKER  IN  THE  NIGHT 59 

THROUGH  THE  WINDOW 6l 

POOR  ICARUS 62  t 

SECURE 63 

LINES  FOR  A  FIFTIETH  ANNIVERSARY 65 

NO  MORE,  DEAR  HEART 66 

THE  MAN-SOUL 67 

OMAR 68 

THE  YOUNG  WIFE  SPEAKS 69 

HEIMWEH   < 7O 


CONTENTS  vii 

FOR  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  WILLIAN  DEAN  HOWELLS     .    .  71 

LOVE  AND  THE  CHILD 72 

ON  FINDING  BUDDHA'S  DUST 73 

IN  A  TENEMENT 74 

DIVINATION 76 

IN  MODERN  BONDS 77 

AN  IDLE  DITTY 78 

FATHER 79 

IN  DREAMLAND So 

TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  MADAME  BUTTERFLY  "      ....  82 

THE  LOVE  OF  LIFE 83 

A  NARROW  WINDOW 84 

THE  LOST  GIOCONDA 85 

TO  ALICE  MEYNELL 86 

THE  SUMMER-TIME  IS  IN  THE  ROSE 87 

THEY  TOLD  ME 88 

TO  R.  R.  ON  REREADING  THE  "  DE  PROFUNDIS  "  OF  OSCAR 

WILDE .89 

FAIRER  THAN  VIOLETS  ARE 9! 

EAGLES  —  GIB ERT'S  BATTLE  FOR  THE  AIR 92  « 

BASE-BORN 94 

THE  MORNING-GLORY 95 

A  LOVER'S  "  LITANY  TO  PAN  " 96 

THE  "TITANIC  "  —  AFTERMATH 98 

KEATS  — A  SONNET 99 

THE  WHITE-THROATED  SPARROW IOO 


viii  CONTENTS 

A  CATHEDRAL .    IOI 

THE  CHOSEN 103 

THE  SONG  THAT  IS  FORGOT IO4 

AGAINST  THE  GATE  OF  LIFE  —  TO  HELEN  KELLER       .      .    105 

A  REALM  OF  WONDER IO6 

IMMORTAL IO9 

O  GIORNO  FELICE  ! IIO 

DREAM  THE  GREAT  DREAM 112 


THE   UNCONQUERED  AIR 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


TO 
HORACE  HOWARD  FURNESS 

With  kind  and  cruel  ministries 

Nature  assays  her  metals  fine, 
And  Heaven,  bestowing  joys  and  griefs 

With  equal  hand  benign, 
Attempers  what  it  holds  most  dear  — 
Adds  now  a  smile  and  now  a  tear, 
Till  it  creates  with  touch  divine 
A  soul  like  thine,  a  soul  like  thine !  — 
Ever  to  loftiest  counsels  moved, 
By  all  men  honoured,  and  by  all  beloved. 


POEMS 


THE  UNCONQUERED  AIR 

i 

OTHERS  endure  Man's  rule :  he  therefore  deems 
I  shall  endure  it  —  I,  the  unconquered  Air ! 
Imagines  this  triumphant  strength  may  bear 

His  paltry  sway !  yea,  ignorantly  dreams, 

Because  proud  Rhea  now  his  vassal  seems, 
And  Neptune  him  obeys  in  billowy  lair, 
That  he  a  more  sublime  assault  may  dare, 

Where  blown  by  tempest  wild  the  vulture  screams ! 

Presumptuous,  he  mounts :  I  toss  his  bones 
Back  from  the  height  supernal  he  has  braved : 

Ay,  as  his  vessel  nears  my  perilous  zones, 

I  blow  the  cockle-shell  away  like  chaff 
And  give  him  to  the  Sea  he  has  enslaved. 

He  founders  in  its  depths ;  and  then  I  laugh ! 

ii 

Impregnable  I  held  myself,  secure 

Against  intrusion.  Who  can  measure  Man  ? 
How  should  I  guess  his  mortal  will  outran 

Defeat  so  far  that  danger  could  allure 


i  ** : 

>  t  * 


*  <*  ,  * 

Y  THE'UNCONQUERED   AIR 

For  its  own  sake  ?  —  that  he  would  all  endure, 
All  sacrifice,  all  suffer,  rather  than 
Forego  the  daring  dreams  Olympian 

That  prophesy  to  him  of  victory  sure  ? 

Ah,  tameless  courage !  —  dominating  power 
That,  all  attempting,  in  a  deathless  hour 

Made  earth-born  Titans  godlike,  in  revolt !  — 
Fear  is  the  fire  that  melts  Icarian  wings : 
Who  fears  nor  Fate,  nor  Time,  nor  what  Time 

brings, 

May  drive  Apollo's  steeds,  or  wield  the  thunder- 
bolt! 


WHY  DID  YOU  GO? 

DEATH  called,  —  but  why  did  you  go  ? 

Did  you  not  know 
That  life  is  better  than  death, 
That  snatches  the  breath 
Out  of  joy  ?  —  that  love  is  better  than  death  ? 

Did  you  not  understand 

How  guarded  the  Land 

Where  death  leads  ?  —  that  howe'er  the  heart  yearn, 
One  may  never  return 

From  the  gloom 

Of  that  dwelling-place  lone  that  doth  hold  and 
entomb  ? 

0  my  sweet! 

Might  I  follow  your  feet,  — 

Afar  from  the  sun  and  the  bloom-scented  air, 

1  would  open  once  more 
The  inexorable  door, 

And  drink  of  dark  Lethe,  your  prison  to  share ! 

5 


ODE  TO   SILENCE 

O  THOU,  sublime,  who  on  the  throne 
Of  eyeless  Night  sat,  awful  and  alone, 

Before  the  birth  of  Cronos,  —  brooding  deep 

Upon  the  voiceless  waters  which  asleep 
Held  all  things  circled  in  their  gelid  zone : 
O  Silence!  how  approach  thy  shrine 

Nor  falter  in  the  listening  void  to  raise 

A  mortal  voice  in  praise, 
Nor  wrong  with  words  such  eloquence  as  thine  ? 

Amid  the  fragrant  forest  hush, 

The  nightingale  or  solitary-thrush 

May,  on  thy  quiet  breaking,  give  no  wound ; 

For  they  such  beauty  bring  as  all  redeems, 

Nor  fear  to  interrupt  thy  dreams 
Or  trouble  thy  Nirvana  with  a  sound ! 

And  though  more  fitting  worship  seem  the  breath 
Of  violets  in  the  sequestered  wood, 

The  zephyr  that  low  whispereth 
To  the  heart  of  Solitude, 

The  first  unfolding  of  the  bashful  rose 

That  noiseless  by  the  wayside  buds  and  blows  : 
6 


ODE  TO   SILENCE  7 

More  fitting  worship  the  far  drift  of  clouds 
O'er  azure  floating,  with  a  swan-like  motion, 

The  Siren-lays  faint  heard  amid  the  shrouds, 
The  voiceless  swell  of  the  unfathomed  ocean, 

The  silver  Dian  pours  on  the  calm  stream 

Where  pale  the  lotus-blossoms  lie  adream,  — 

Yet,  mother  of  all  high  imaginings, 

In  whom  is  neither  barrenness  nor  dearth, 

Wise  guardian  of  the  sacred  springs 

Whose  fresh  primordial  waters  heal  the  earth,  — 

O  soul  of  muted  fire, 

Of  whom  is  born  the  passionate  desire 
That  gives  to  beauty  birth,  — 

All  music  that  hath  been,  howe'er  divine, 
All  possibilities  of  sound  are  thine  ! 
The  syrinx-reed,  the  flute  Apollo  owns, 
Symphonic  chords,  and  lyric  overtones, 
First  draw  their  inspiration  at  thy  shrine. 
There  come  heart-broken  mortal  things  j 
There  once  again  they  find  their  wings ; 
There  garner  dreams  benign,  — 
O  nurse  of  genius !  unto  whom  belong 
Beethoven's  harmonies  and  Homer's  deathless  song ! 


THE  POETRY  OF  EARTH 

"  The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead."— KEATS. 

THERE  is  always  room  for  beauty:  memory 
A  myriad  lovely  blossoms  may  enclose, 

But,  whatsoe'er  hath  been,  there  still  must  be 
Room  for  another  rose. 

Though  skylark,  throstle,  whitethroat,  whip-poor- 
will, 

And  nightingale  earth's  echoing  chantries  throng, 
When  comes  another  singer,  there  will  be 
Room  for  another  song. 
8 


HOW  WONDERFUL  IS  LOVE! 

How  wonderful  is  love ! 

More  wonderful,  I  wis, 

Than  cherry-blossoms  are  when  spring's  first  kiss 

Warms  the  chill  breast  of  earth, 

And  gives  new  birth 

To  beauty !  High  above 

All  miracles  —  the  miracle  of  love, 

Which  by  its  own  glad  and  triumphant  power 

Brings  life  to  flower. 

Oh,  love  is  wonderful ! 

More  wonderful  than  is  the  dew-fed  rose 
Whose  petals  half  unclose, 

In  welcome  of  the  light, 
When  first  the  Dawn  comes  robed  in  vesture  cool 

Of  fragrant,  shimmering  white !  — 
More  wonderful  and  strange 
Than  moonrise,  which  doth  change 
Dulness  to  glory  — 
Yea,  with  a  touch  transforms  the  mountains  hoary, 

And  fills  the  darkling  rills  with  living  silver 
bright ! 

Not  music  when  it  wings 
From  the  far  azure  where  the  skylark  sings 
•  Is  wonderful  as  love  !  — 
9 


io  HOW  WONDERFUL   IS   LOVE! 

Not  music  when  it  wells 

From  the  enchanted  fairy-haunted  dells 

Where,  shrined  mid  thorn  and  vine  — 

An  ecstasy  apart, 

Drawn  from  the  life-blood  of  a  yearning  heart  — 

The  nightingale  pours  forth  forever 

The  rapture  and  the  pain,  that  naught  can  sever, 
Of  love  which  mortal  is,  yet  knows  itself  divine ! 


HIS   FACE 

THEY  tell  you  Lincoln  was  ungainly,  plain  ? 

To  some  he  seemed  so  :  true. 
Yet  in  his  look  was  charm  to  gain 

E'en  such  as  I,  who  knew 
With  how  confirmed  a  will  he  tried 
To  overthrow  a  cause  for  which  I  would  have  died. 

The  sun  may  shine  with  naught  to  shroud 
Its  beam,  yet  show  less  bright 

Than  when  from  out  eclipsing  cloud 
It  pours  its  radiant  light ; 

And  Lincoln,  seen  amid  the  shows  of  war 

Clothed  in  his  sober  black,  was  somehow  felt  the 
more 

To  be  a  centre  and  a  soul  of  power,  — 

An  influence  benign 
To  kindle  in  a  faithless  hour 

New  trust  in  the  divine. 

Grave  was  his  visage,  but  no  cloud  could  dull 
The  radiance  from  within  that  made  it  beautiful. 

A  prisoner,  when  I  saw  him  first  — 

Wounded  and  sick  for  home  — 


12  HIS   FACE 

His  presence  soothed  my  yearning's  thirst 

While  yet  his  lips  were  dumb  ; 
For  such  compassion  as  his  countenance  wore 
I  had  not  seen  nor  felt  in  human  face  before. 

And  when,  low-bending  o'er  his  foe, 
He  took  in  his  firm  hand 
My  wasted  one,  I  seemed  to  know 

We  two  were  of  one  Land ; 

And  as  my  cheek  flushed  warm  with  young  sur- 
prise, 

God's  pity  looked  on  me  from  Lincoln's  sorrowing 
eyes. 

His  prisoner  I  was  from  then  — 

Love  makes  surrender  sure  — 

And  though  I  saw  him  not  again, 
Some  memories  endure, 

And  I  am  glad  my  untaught  worship  knew 

His  the  divinest  face  I  ever  looked  into ! 


LULLABY 

DAY  is  stealing  down  the  West, 
Tender,  drowsy  sounds  are  heard  j 
Closer  now  each  downy  bird 

Creeps  'neath  mother-wings  to  rest. 

In  the  fading  sky  afar, 

Kindled  by  some  angel  hand, 

Twinkling  comes  a  tiny  star,  — 
Baby's  guide  to  Sleepy-Land. 

Cooler,  darker  grows  the  air, 

Eerie  shadows  haunt  the  room; 
In  the  garden,  through  the  gloom, 

'Wildering  bats  and  owlets  fare ; 
But  the  lambs  and  birdies  seem 

Happy  now  at  home  to  keep, 
And  a  darling  little  dream 

Smiles  at  baby  in  his  sleep. 
13 


DEATHLESS   DEATH 

IN   MEMORY  OF    RICHARD   WATSON   GILDER 

WE  who  have  seen  the  seed  fall  without  sound 

Into  the  lifeless  ground, 
Through  wintry  days  are  tempted  to  forget 
How  Spring  will  come  with  the  first  violet 

In  her  dark  hair, 

Fresh  and  more  fair 

Than  we  remembered  her,  a  glad  surprise 
In  the  veiled  azure  of  her  shadowy  eyes. 

Fear  doth  the  heart  deceive, 

And  still  we  grieve 
Where  we  should  lift  the  voice 
In  triumph,  and  rejoice 

Amid  our  sorrow, 
Because  of  what  the  past 
Has  given  that  is  beauteous  and  shall  last— 
A  heritage  of  blessing  for  the  morrow. 

Lo,  in  what  perfect  trust 
Nature  confides  her  darlings  to  the  dust ! 
The  rose,  the  crocus,  the  narcissus  sweet, 
She  lays  to  rest,  undoubting,  at  her  feet 
14 


DEATHLESS    DEATH  15 

Who  from  the  meadows  bright 
Was  snatched  away  to  rule  in  the  sad  light 

Of  Hades,  and  to  learn 
Its  lessons  stern. 

For  Nature's  faith  is  deep 

That,  waking  from  the  dark  and  dreamless  sleep, 
Her  flowers  toward  the  sun  shall  wistful  yearn, 
And  in  the  fragrant  breast  of  Proserpine  return- 

Ah,  lover  true  of  men, 

Forgive,  forgive  us,  then, 
If  choked  by  tears  we  falter  in  our  praise, 
Remembering  that  we  no  more  again 
Shall  hold  glad  converse  with  thy  spirit  brave, 
Nor  from  thy  lips  hear  words  that  lift  and  save, 
Through  all  the  lengthening  number  of  our  days! 

By  the  great  Silence  thou  art  set  apart 
From  all  the  restless  travail  of  the  heart 
That  beats  in  us 

So  passionate  and  strong  — 
Art  passed  beyond  the  evening  angelus 

And  Memnon's  morning  song. 


Man's  life  on  earth  —  how  brief ! 
Yet  we  with  Nature  hold  the  high  belief 

E'en  when  our  hearts  are  breaking, 
That  death  is  but  the  vital  way, 


16  DEATHLESS    DEATH 

Darkness  the  shadow  of  the  day, 
And  sleep  the  door  to  waking ! 

And  shall  we  still  with  tears 
Pay  tribute  sad  to  one  whose  soul  endears 
Even  the  dark,  dark  river  it  hath  crossed  ? 

Shall  we  in  grief  forget 
The  sweetness  and  the  glory  of  our  debt, 
And  that  no  good,  once  given,  can  be  lost  ? 

Distant  thy  dwelling  seems, 
Poet  and  patriot! — but,  ah,  thy  dreams 
Are  living  as  the  flame  of  sacrifice ! 

Therefore  love's  roses  now 
We  lay  amidst  the  laurel  for  thy  brow, 
Grateful  that  souls  like  thine  our  earth 
emparadise. 


THE  "UNFINISHED"  SYMPHONY 

O  MUSIC  of  divine  imagining  ! 

Does  he  not  hear  you  in  his  dreams  to-night  ? 
Can  you  no  wonder  to  his  spirit  bring  — 

And  no  delight  ? 

His  love  created  you ;  his  hopes,  his  fears, 
Are  poignant  in  these  tones,  surmounting  death  — 

These  melodies  that  dim  the  eyes  with  tears, 
And  snatch  the  breath !  .  .  . 

And  can  he  longer  sleep,  nor  note  this  strain 
Whose  magic  enters  now,  with  lovelier  art 

That  like  a  benediction  thrills  the  brain 
And  fills  the  heart? 

Ah,  not  to  one  shall  all  earth's  joys  belong ! 

So  have  the  gods  ordained,  whom  we  obey, 
Lest  mortal  men  should  deem  themselves  as  strong, 

As  blest  as  they. 

On  Schubert,  out  of  love,  the  ecstasy 

That  wrote  this  godlike  music  they  conferred : 

To  us  they  gave  to  hear  the  symphony 
He  never  heard ! 

17 


IN  THE   TOWN   A  WILD    BIRD   SINGING 
"  Hear  me,  Theresa,  Theresa,  Theresa  1 " 

HARK  !  Do  I  dream  ?  Nay,  even  now  I  heard 
The  whitethroat's  music,  tremulous  yet  clear : 

The  very  plaint,  O  lonely  bird, 

That  often  midst  the  greening  woods  hath  stirred 
My  heart ;  but  never  here ! 

This  is  the  City !  High  above  the  street, 
Before  my  window  singing  in  the  dawn, 

By  what  imagination  dost  thou  cheat 

Thy  hope  to  utter  melody  so  sweet, 
Far  from  thy  groves  withdrawn  ? 

Thy  tones  transport  me,  wistful,  to  the  North, 
Seeming  to  lay  a  touch  upon  my  brow 
Cool  as  the  balsam-laden  airs  that  now 
Through  pine-woods   blow :   they  woo   my   spirit 

forth  — 

Forth    of    the    town  —  forth   of    myself.     But 
thou? 

Dost  thou  an  exile  wander  from  thy  home 
Or  art  thou  hast'ning  thither  ? 
18 


IN  THE  TOWN  A  WILD  BIRD  SINGING    19 

Through  what  beguilement  dost  thou  friendless 

roam  ? 
And  goest  thou  —  ah,  whither  ? 

Day  quickly  fades,  Night  may  refuse  her  star, 
Clouds  may  arise,  and  elemental  strife,  — 
Ah,  hapless  bird  !  what  wanderlust  of  life 

Betrayed  thy  wings  so  far  ? 

Full  as  my  soul  of  tremulous  desires, 
Thy  voice  I  hear  in  supplication  rise. 
"  Theresa ! "  dost  thou  call  ?  Unto  the  skies 

The  plaint,  adoring,  holily  aspires  :  — 

"Theresa!"  Is  it  she  keeps  watch  o'er  thee? — 

Homeless  —  but  free  ? 

Wise  minstrel !  Thou  dost  well  to  call  on  her ; 

No  saint  was  ever  lovelier. 

Her  heart  had  room  for  such  wide  tenderness 

As  his  who  "  Little  Sister  "  called  the  birds, 

And  pity,  deeper  than  all  words, 
Taught  her,  like  him,  to  bless. 

Silent  ?  Where  art  thou  ?  Lo,  the  City  wakes  ! 
Toil's  round  begins,  and  calm  the  world  forsakes. 
Thou,  too,  art  gone  ! — nor  evermore  shalt  come 

Without  my  window  here  at  dawn  to  sing. 

Adieu,  strange  guest !  Theresa  guide  thy  wing 
Safe  to  the  sweet  wild  woods  that  are  thy  home ! 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

"  Never  say  of  me  that  I  am  dead !  " 

GREAT-HEARTED  son  of  the  Titan  mother,  Earth, 

Fed  at  her  breast, 

He  builded  upward  from  the  solid  ground, 
While  listening  ever  for  the  heavenly  sound 

Of  higher  voices,  to  his  soul  addressed. 

The  elemental  mother,  lending  might 

With  vital  breath, 

Made  him,  with  her  instinctive  courage,  brave ; 
And  the  immortals  to  his  spirit  gave 

Their  deeper  knowledge  and  their  scorn  of  death. 

So  evermore  with  energy  and  joy, 

He  followed  Truth : 

Still  for  the  message  and  the  vision  sought, 
Still  to  the  temple  of  her  worship  brought 

The  imagination  of  unaging  youth, 

And  in  its  largeness  ever  viewing  life, 

Perceived  its  goal 

To  be  beyond  the  bounds  of  space  or  time. 
He  strove  to  picture  it  in  powerful  rhyme ; 

But  what  he  painted  ever  —  was  the  soul ! 
20 


ROBERT   BROWNING  21 

Ay,  't  was  the  soul  that  moved,  delighted  him, 

Absorbed  his  care, 

From  early  days  in  English  Camberwell 
To  that  far  hour  when  tolled  for  him  a  knell, 

Mournful  across  the  deep,  from  Venice  the  all- 
fair. 

Voiceless  he  sleeps,  his  giant  task  performed ; 

But  in  his  stead, 

Brave  Caponsacchi,  poignantly  alive, 
Pippa,  beloved  Pompilia,  and  Clive, 

Forbid  the  world  to  think  of  him  as  dead ! 


fiASTRE 

I,  WHO  am  ever  young, 

Am  she  whom  Earth  hath  sung 
From  the  far  ages  when  from  death  awaking 
She  felt  the  dawn  of  life  within  her  breaking  — 
A  strange  and  inexperienced  delight 
That  warned  the  desert  places  of  her  night, 

And  after  bondage  long, 
Left  her  divinely  free 
To  worship  with  an  ecstasy, 

Voiceless,  that  yet  was  song ! 

I  am  that  she,  Astarte  named, 
By  proud  Phoenicia  and  Assyria  claimea, 
Adored  by  Babylon  and  Naucratis. 

From  the  moon,  my  throne  of  bliss, 

On  famed  Hieropolis 

Where  stood  my  temple  sanctified  and  hoary, 
I  poured  such  floods  of  silver  glory 
That  mortals  —  blest  my  palest  beams  to  see  - 
Fell  prone  upon  the  earth  and  worshiped  me  1 

I  am  Aurora  —  goddess  of  the  dawn ! 
To  heaven  in  my  orient  car  updrawn, 
While  winged  joys  fly  after, 

22 


fiASTRE  *J 

I  part  with  roseate  hand  the  curtained  dark. 

Mid  bird-songs  and  celestial  laughter, 
I  perfume  all  the  aether  with  my  breath, 
And  putting  by  the  envious  clouds  of  Death, 

With  my  insistent  yearning 
Rekindle  the  sun's  fire  and  set  it  burning. 

Persephone  am  I  —  the  Spring 
Whom  all  things  celebrate  and  sing. 

When  glad  from  Hades'  sombre  home 

Back  to  the  dear,  dear  earth  I  come, 
The  gods  themselves,  my  way  befriending, 

Look  down  on  me  with  shining  eyes  benign* 
And  grant  that,  to  my  mother's  arms  ascending, 

Of  miracles  the  loveliest  shall  be  mine. 

Howe'er  men  speak  my  name 

I  ever  am  the  same,  — 

In  herb  and  tree  and  vine  and  blossoming  flower, 
Regenerating,  consecrating  power. 

Youth  am  I  and  delight. 
Astarte  or  Aurora,  still  the  priest 
Of  mysteries  beneficently  bright. 
The  vivifying  glory  of  the  East, 
The  Spring,  in  vesture  of  transparent  dyes 
'Broidered  with  blossoms  and  with  butterflies, 
The  door  that  leads  from  gloomy  vasts  of  Death,  — 
I  resurrection  am  !  —  new  life  !  new  breath  1 


SONG 

My  love  is  fairer  than  the  tasseled  corn. 

MY  love  is  fairer  than  the  tasseled  corn 
That  matches  with  its  gold  the  golden  day; 

My  love  is  sweeter  than  the  breath  of  morn 
Fragrant  with  new-mown  hay. 

There 's  nothing  dearer  or  more  tender, 

And  day  by  day  the  Graces  lend  her 

A  smile,  a  tear,  to  bind  the  heart 
And  keep  it  hers  alway ! 
24 


THE  TOMB  SAID  TO  THE  ROSE 

After  the  French  of  Victor  Hugo. 

THE  tomb  said  to  the  rose : 

—  "  With  the  tears  thy  leaves  enclose, 
What  makest  thou,  love's  flower  ? " 
The  rose  said  to  the  tomb : 

—  "  Nay,  tell  me  of  all  those  whom 
Death  gives  into  thy  power !  " 

The  rose  said :  —  "  Tomb,  't  is  strange, 
But  these  tears  of  love  I  change 
Into  perfumes  amber  sweet." 
The  tomb  said  :  —  "  Plaintive  flower, 
Of  these  souls,  I  make  each  hour 
Angels,  for  heaven  meet!" 


EXALTATION 

After  the  French  of  Victor  Hugo. 

ALONE  by  the  waves,  on  a  starlight  night, 
No  mist  on  the  sea,  not  a  cloud  in  sight, 

My  eyes  pierced  further  than  earth's  desires ; 
And  nature  —  all  nature,  the  hills,  and  the  woods, 
Seemed  to  question,  with  murmur  of  myriad  moods, 

The  waves  of  the  sea  and  the  heavenly  fires. 

And  the  infinite  legion  of  golden  stars 
Replied  in  a  chant  of  harmonious  bars, 

Their  scintillant  crowns  seeming  earthward  to 

nod; 
And  the  waves,  which  no  puissance  can  rule  or 

arrest, 

Made  answer,  while  curbing  the  foam  of  each  crest : 
—  It  is  God !  it  is  God !  it  is  God ! 
26 


CENDRILLON 

"  Vous  Tavez  dit :  je  suis  le  reve." 

I  AM  a  dream, 
A  fairy  gleam 
Of  rose  and  amethyst ; 
A  creature  of  the  moonlight  and  the  mist, 
Woven  of  stars  that,  meeting,  silent  kissed. 
Think  of  me  as  a  dream ! 

I  am  a  note  of  melody  that  woke 
Within  your  breast,  and  to  your  longing  spoke ; 
A  lonely  strain 
Of  ecstasy  and  pain; 
A  hope  that,  glimpsed,  must  fade ; 
A  form,  illusion  made, 
That,  vanishing,  shall  come  no  more  again ! 

Regret  me  not  that  I 
Must  like  to  music  die  ! 

The  virgin  rose, 

In  blossoming,  hastes  to  its  fragrant  close, 
And  whatsoe'er  this  magic  hour  I  seem, 
I  am  enchantment,  only,  and  a  dream,  — 
Love  always  is  a  dream ! 
27 


ODE  ON  THE  CORONATION  OF 
KING  GEORGE  V 

"  I  have  vowed  to  God  to  lead  a  right  life  in  all  things,  to 
rule  justly  and  piously  my  realms  and  subjects,  and  to  ad- 
minister just  judgment  to  all.  If  heretofore  I  have  done  aught 
beyond  what  was  just,  through  headiness  or  negligence  of 
youth,  I  am  ready  with  God's  help  to  amend  it  utterly." — 
King  Canute's  letter  to  his  English  subjects. 

WHEN  Nature  takes  away  the  things  we  prize, 
With  all  a  mother's  patient  tenderness 
She  soothes  us,  and  from  treasure  limitless 
Brings  forth  new  joys  to  gladden  our  grieved  eyes. 

Before  the  leaves  fall  fluttering  to  the  ground 
Affrighted  at  the  very  breath  and  sound 
Of  the  wind's  passion,  she  from  blight  and  storm 
Garners  the  seeds  of  Summer,  safe  and  warm. 

She  knows,  though  glad  and  sweet  the  wild  bird 

sing, 

How  soon  the  trillium  of  the  wood  shall  fade,  — 
Nor  longer  with  its  stars  illume  the  shade,  — 
She  knows,  and  harvests  for  a  future  Spring ; 

And  though  about  her  winds  of  Autumn  sigh, 
And  though  the  rose  —  the  rose,  itself,  must  die, 
28 


ODE  ON  CORONATION  OF  GEORGE  V  29 

And  though  the  lordly  pine  that  scorns  to  bend 
Must  fall  at  last,  —  she  knows  there  is  no  end. 

Sure  of  her  birthright  —  elemental,  vast,  — 
Calmly  she  waits ;  but  man,  to  whom  is  given 
Earth  in  its  fullness  and  the  dream  of  heaven, 
Still  looks  with  fond  regret  unto  a  past 

Whose  colors  fade  not  in  the  distant  light, 
But  rather  to  his  worship  grow  more  bright, 
And  careless  as  to  that  the  future  saith, 
Pays  tribute  to  the  nothingness  of  death. 


When  the  fourth  Henry,  in  that  chamber  called 
Jerusalem,  lay  dying,  with  what  fear, 
Knowing  the  Angel-of-the-Shadow  near, 
Must  he  have  viewed  the  future  and,  appalled, 
Beheld  succeeding  to  his  perilous  throne  — 
To  reign  and  rule  alone  — 
One  who  to  Folly  turned  a  laughing  face, 
Dallied  with  Fortune,  and  out-dared  Disgrace. 

More  grievous,  as  the  fatal  hour  drew  nigh, 
More  dreadful  than  the  death  he  might  not  fly, 
More  poignant  than  regret  or  mortal  pain 
Or  memories  of  woeful  Richard  slain,  — 
More  tragic  than  all  else  to  him  the  thought 
That  his  own  offspring,  in  but  little  while, 


30  ODE  ON  CORONATION  OF  GEORGE  V 

Consorting  with  the  worthless  and  the  vile, 
Should  bring  his  dearly  purchased  good  to  naught 

Fainting,  the  King  saw  sorrows  multiply, 

And  out  of  weakness  dared  to  prophesy 

Evil  of  Harry  Monmouth  !  nor  might  guess 

How  idle  his  distress 

For  one  whose  future  Honour  should  secure 

In  human  hearts  and  in  heroic  story,  — 

The  King  new  found,  new  crowned,  at  Agincourt,  — 

Great  England's  darling  and  her  future  glory  ! 


But  how  should  doubt  not  add  to  care  its  pain 

When,  after  Mary  Tudor's  baleful  reign, 

Forth  came  from  prison  drear 

Another  Queen  ?  Yet  't  was  her  spirit,  fired 

By  grave  ambition,  nobly  men  inspired 

To  victories  thrice  dear,  — 

Giving  her  Age  to  breathe  immortal  breath, 

Illustrious  in  the  name  Elizabeth  ! 

in 

Still  with  misgiving  crowns  are  laid 
Upon  the  brow  of  kings. 
Yet  oft  have  fairest  plantings  been  repaid 
With  poorest  harvestings, 
While  following  vain  auguries  of  ill 
To  man  have  come,  beneficently  born, 


ODE  ON  CORONATION  OF  GEORGE  V  31 

Such   reigns    as    his    whose    tact    and  generous 

will 
The  Nations  of  the  earth  late  joined  to  mourn. 

But  no  misgiving  clouds  the  Future  now ! 
In  all  the  ages  rarely  hath  there  been 
Such  light  of  hope  upon  the  forehead  seen 
As  that  which  haloes  her  auroral  brow, 
Whose  puissance  shall  uplift  the  poor  and  weak, 
Whose  love  shall  teach,  to  such  as  wisdom  seek, 
That  they  are  blest  who  give,  they  only  free 
Who  in  the  strength  of  Law  find  liberty  I 

IV 

England,  it  is  thy  coronation  hour ! 
Doubt  is  of  high  and  ancient  lineage, 
But  faith  is  more  than  plenitude  of  power, 
And  now  —  distrust  were  treason.  Turn  in  pride, 

O  England,  to  thy  happy  heritage ! 
And  as  the  bridegroom  forth  to  meet  the  bride 
Fares  smiling,  so,  from  cloudy  griefs  of  night, 
Turn   thou   where    lovely   dawns   the   day's   new 
light, 

And  with  wise  trust,  the  fruit  of  loyalty, 
To  his  great  father's  throne 
Make  doubly  welcome  Alexandra's  son  — 
Thy  son,  O  England !  —  worthy  thine  to  be  ! 


32  ODE  ON  CORONATION  OF  GEORGE  V 

Far  from  thy  beauteous  isle,  across  the  Sea, 
A  Sister-Land  prays  heaven  for  him  and  thee  — 
Prays  that  the  coming  ages  still  may  sing 
The  blessings  of  his  reign.  God  save  the  King ! 


BETTER  TO  DIE 

BETTER  to  die,  where  gallant  men  are  dying, 
Than  to  live  on  with  them  that  basely  fly : 
Better  to  fall,  the  soulless  Fates  defying, 
Than  unassailed  to  wander  vainly,  trying 
To  turn  one's  face  from  an  accusing  sky ! 

Days  matter  not,  nor  years  to  the  undaunted ; 

To  live  is  nothing,  —  but  to  nobly  live  ! 
The  poorest  visions  of  the  honour-haunted 
More  worth    than    doubtful    pleasure-masks    en- 
chanted, 

They  win  new  life  who  life  for  others  give. 

The  planets  in  their  watchful  course  behold  them  — 

To  live  is  nothing,  —  but  to  nobly  live !  — 
For  though  the  Earth  with  mother-hands  remold 

them, 

Though  Ocean  in  his  billowy  arms  enfold  them, 
They  are  as  gods,  who  life  to  others  give  ! 
33 


YESTERDAY 

MY  soul  is  fain  to  drink  of  joy ; 

Thy  cup  is  full  of  tears. 
Ah,  take  it  from  me,  nor  destroy 

The  dream  of  future  years ! 
Thy  face  is  fair,  but  grief  is  there  — 

And  grief  but  wastes  and  sears. 

We  two  have  been  companioned  long 
Now  straightway  let  us  part ! 

Another  and  a  dearer  song, 
By  some  mysterious  art, 

Draws  young,  sweet  breath  while  thy 

lips  of  death 
Yet  whisper  to  my  heart. 

Ah,  joy  it  is  a  timid  thing, 

And  easily  7t  is  slain ; 
A  tender  firstling  of  the  spring, 

It  shrinks  at  touch  of  pain  ; 
Then  haste  away,  dread  Yesterday ! 

Nor  hither  come  again  ! 

So  quickly  ?  But  who  goes  with  thee, 
Unrecognized  before  ? 
34 


YESTERDAY  35 

Are  hopeK  alas  !  and  memory 

Thus  joined  forevermore  ? 
Then  must  thou  stay,  O  Yesterday ! 

Lest  joy,  too,  quit  my  door. 


CUPID   AND  THE  MUSES 

"  Revetior  illas,  mater ;  nam  venerandae  sunt,  et  semper 
quiddam  commeditantur.  ..."  —  LUCIAN. 

ONCE  lovely  Venus  to  her  wayward  boy  — 

Her  wilful  torment  and  her  keen  delight  — 
Spake  chidingly  :  —  "  Why  must  you  me  annoy 

With  your  capricious  wiles  by  day  and  night  ? 
Perplexing  child,  display  your  arts  elsewhere : 
Turn  you  to  those  whom  idly  now  you  spare ! 

Cold  in  content,  and  armored  in  their  pride, 
Behold  the  Muses  !  —  let  them  claim  your  care !  " 

To  whom   the   laughing  Cupid  :  — ' '  Nay,  I  Ve 

tried 
What  ways  I  know,  to  move  those  ladies  fair ; 

But,  ah,  my  mother,  they  're  so  occupied  I  " 
36 


LAST  NIGHT  I  DREAMED 

LAST  night  I  dreamed,  mine  enemy, 

That  you  were  at  my  side, 
As  in  the  days  e'er  coldness  came 

Our  spirits  to  divide. 

You  smiled  again  with  cordial  eyes 

And  simple  heart  elate, 
As  in  the  happy  olden  time 

That  nothing  knew  of  hate, 

And  I  forgot,  in  converse  glad, 

The  bitterness  since  then, 
And  nearer  to  my  thought  you  seemed  — 

Dearer  —  than  other  men ; 

For  memory,  with  softened  touch 

Of  pity,  that  caressed, 
Made  every  kindness  glow  more  bright,  • 

And  blotted  out  the  rest. 

Last  night  from  dreams,  mine  enemy, 

I  woke  in  tears,  and  knew 
The  soul,  apart  from  mortal  strife, 

Has  naught  with  hate  to  do. 
37 


LOVE  IS  PASSING 

LOVE  is  passing  through  the  street. 
Love,  imperishably  sweet, 
On  his  silver-sandaled  feet 
Draweth  near. 

Suppliant  he  came  of  yore,  — 
Comes  he  now  as  conqueror  ? 
Will  he,  pausing  at  my  door, 
Enter  here  ? 

Once  his  lips  were  ruby-red, 
And  his  wings  like  gold,  outspread, 
And  the  roses  crowned  his  head, 
As  in  story  ; 

And,  though  these  he  now  disguise, 
Ever  a  lost  paradise 
In  the  azure  of  his  eyes 
Keeps  its  glory. 

Love  is  passing  through  the  street  — 
Love,  imperishably  sweet, 
And  were  death  our  way  to  meet, 
I  would  dare  it 
38 


LOVE   IS   PASSING  39 

Come  he  suppliant,  as  before, 
Come  he  as  a  conqueror,  — 
So  he  turn  not  from  my  door, 
I  can  bear  it ! 


THE  HOSPITAL 
I 

IN  THE  MATERNITY   WARD 

Is  this  the  place  ?  So  still !  —  as  with  the  hush 

That  follows  storm. 

Each  on  her  narrow  bed,  they  quiet  lie  — 
They  who,  so  young,  have  been  so  near  to  die  — 

Seeming  of  life  but  effigy  and  form. 

How  fair  these  girlish  faces  with  closed  eyes  ! 

Passion  and  strife 

Seem  far  from  them.  Are  these  beyond  their  reach  ? 
Nay,  see !  —  high-cradled  at  the  foot  of  each, 

A  tender,  new-born  miracle  of  life ! 

On  slippered  feet  the  nurses  to  and  fro 

Move  noiselessly. 

A  feeble  cry !  —  a  sigh  half  breathed  in  sleep ! 
But  who  is  this  that  vigil  here  doth  keep  — 

What  Presence  of  august  benignity  ? 

O  strangely  moving  vision  !  I  behold 
The  Mighty  Mother !  — 
40 


THE   HOSPITAL  41 

She  who,  wandering  friendless  and  forlorn, 
Sought  far  and  near  the  child  herself  had  borne, 
Finding  nor  help  nor  comfort  in  another. 

Over  the  weakness  here  so  proven  strength, 

She,  heavenly, 

Bends  down ;  and,  lo !  the  room  becomes  a  shrine 
And  hallowed  altar  for  a  love  divine,  — 

Pure  as  her  love  for  lost  Persephone ! 

II 

IN  THE   SURGICAL  WARD 
"  He  that  loveth  his  life  shall  lose  it." 

Last  night  a  shape  of  fear 
Came  in  the  silence  drear  — 

Unlooked-for  and  unsought  — 
With  stealthy,  ghost-like  motion  drawing  near. 

I  could  not  see  its  face 
In  the  unlighted  place ; 

No  sound  of  it  I  caught ; 
But,  shuddering,  I  felt  its  creeping  pace. 

A  thing  too  dread  to  bear, 
I  knew  that  it  was  there. 

And,  my  warm  blood  grown  cold, 
An  icy  breathing  horror  stirred  my  hair. 


42  THE   HOSPITAL 

With  pain-shut  eyes  I  lay, 
Wishing  yet  dreading  day 

That  with  strange  pangs  untold 
Should  come,  my  frame  to  rack  in  a  new  way, 

And  powerless  to  free 
Myself,  despairingly, 

"  From  the  body  of  this  death," 
I  moaned,  "  Who  shall  deliver  me  ? " 

Then,  all  my  pulses  stirred, 
Awed  and  amazed,  I  heard  — 

Uttered  with  calming  breath 
Distinct  and  clear,  apart  from  me  —  a  word 

In  far  Judaea  taught, 
That  instant  freedom  brought, 
Winging  my  soul's  escape 
Through  the  blest  miracle  of  heavenly  thought. 

And  in  the  dreaming  dawn, 
Waiting,  all  fear  withdrawn, 

I  knew  the  coward  Shape 
From  out  my  life  forevermore  was  gone. 


ONCE  IN  A  STILL,  SEQUESTERED  PLACE 

ONCE  in  a  still,  sequestered  place 

Where  fell  a  shade,  as  of  approaching  death, 
A  lily  drooped  upon  its  wounded  stem. 

But,  ah,  how  sweet  its  breath ! 

The  shadow  deepened  into  night, 

Life  flows  no  longer  in  the  lily's  veins  ; 

But  there  where  for  a  fragrant  hour  it  bloomed, 
A  perfume  still  remains ! 
43 


THE  ORCHESTRAL  LEADER 

ALL  eyes  upon  him  centred,  motionless, 
Yet  tensely  watchful,  vividly  aware, 
He  stands  an  instant  waiting.  In  the  air 

His  mystic  wand,  uplifted,  seems  to  bless 

The  Silence,  while  it  calls  to  readiness 
Forces  that  overwhelming  Silence  there, 
Shall  in  its  stead  give  Sound  so  sweet  and  rare 

As  must  its  every  parting  pang  redress. 

Magician  and  enchanter,  he  doth  hold 
In  his  fine  hand  tones,  accents,  manifold, 

Interpreting  the  gods  to  mortal  men : 
His  are  the  nerves  that  vitalize  the  rest ; 
The  central  heart  of  all  beats  in  his  breast ; 

Through  him  the  mighty  dead  revive  and  speak 
again. 

44 


IN  LONELINESS 

ISEULT   OF    BRITTANY 

THEY  are  at  rest. 

How  still  it  is  —  and  cold  ! 

The  morrow  comes  ;  the  night  is  growing  old. 

They  are  at  rest.  Why  then,  unresting,  keep 

In  vigil  lone,  a  pain  that  will  not  sleep  — 

An  anguish,  only  to  itself  confessed, 

That  hushed  a  moment  lies, 

Then  wakes  to  sudden  eager  life,  and  cries  ? 

At  rest  ? 

Ah,  me !  The  wind  wails  by, 

Like  to  a  grief  that  would  but  cannot  die. 

How  sore  the  heart  can  ache, 

Yet  beat  and  beat  and  beat,  and  never  break ! 

Hearken  !  —  was  that  a  child's  awaking  cry  ? 

It  was  the  sea  —  the  ever  troubled  sea ! 
My  little  ones,  it  was  the  sea, 
That  moans  unceasingly, 
One  drear  refrain  repeating  o'er  and  o'er  :  — 
"Tristram  returns  no  more  — 
45 


46  IN   LONELINESS 

Tristram  returns,  returns  —  ah,  never  more  !  " 

Ashen  the  fire,  — 

Ashen  :  like  dead  desire. 

The  dawn  breaks  chill, 

The  children,  sleeping,  think  their  father  here. 

O  Tristram !  might  I,  also,  dream  you  near  !  — 

Mine  —  mine  without  regret ! 

As  when  I  nursed  your  wound,  and  taught  you  to 

forget 

The  cruel  torment  of  your  love  for  her>  — 
The  poisoned  wine,  the  unrepenting  Fate, 
The  ship,  the  pain,  the  still  avenging  hate, 
The  yearning  that  is  death,  yet  doth  not  kill ! 

Sleep,  little  ones !  your  mother  guards  you  still. 

They  are  at  rest, 

Their  sorrows  over. 

Forgetful  of  the  tortured  past, 

They  are  at  rest  at  last, 

Sad  lover  by  sad  lover. 

Oh,  drear  to  me 

The  voices  of  the  sea-birds,  and  the  sea  — 

The  sea  that  moans  against  the  shore, 

Repeating  ceaselessly :  — 

"  Tristram  returns  no  more, 

Returns  —  ah,  never,  never  more  !  " 


UNPARDONED 

SOME  things  I  never  would  forgive ! " 
So  said  you,  dear,  not  knowing 

That  love  is  dead  unless  it  live 
All  charity  bestowing. 

Now,  you  whose  heart  love  so  could  brim 
In  dire,  dire  need,  learn  this  of  him 

Whose  all  to  you  is  owing : 
The  one  wrong  man  can  not  forgive 

Is  the  wrong  of  his  own  sowing ! 
47 


EVERY  NIGHT  AT  MARATHON 

"  In  their  plains  the  neighing  of  horses  is  heard  nightly, 
and  men  are  seen  fighting;  and  those  who  purposely  come 
as  hearers  or  spectators  into  these  plains  suffer  for  their 
curiosity;  but  such  as  are  accidentally  witnesses  of  these 
prodigies  are  not  injured  by  the  anger  of  the  daemons.  The 
Marathonians  highly  honor  those  that  have  fallen  in  battle 
and  give  them  the  appellation  of  heroes."  —  PAUSANIAS. 

EVERY  night  at  Marathon 

(Shepherd  boy,  beware  !)  — 
Every  night  at  Marathon 

Sounds  are  in  the  air : 
Ghostly  sounds,  the  heart  dismaying, 
As  of  maddened  horses  neighing, 

Over  all  the  plain. 

Every  night  at  Marathon 

(Boy,  the  vision  fly !)  — 
Every  night  at  Marathon, 

'Neath  a  darkened  sky, 
Form  with  form  in  shadow  blending, 
Warrior-shapes  are  seen  contending 

As  in  conflict  vain. 

These  are  they  at  Marathon 
(Mark,  O  shepherd-lad !) 
48 


EVERY  NIGHT  AT  MARATHON    49 

Who,  for  freedom,  to  the  gods 

Offered  all  they  had  ; 
Who  in  danger,  Death  defying, 
Triumphed  over  Fate  in  dying, 

For  our  gain  —  our  gain ! 

Daemons  sentinel  the  field ; 

Venture  thou  not  near,  — 
Neither  seek  those  forms  to  view, 

Nor  those  sounds  to  hear. 
This  enough  for  thee  :  they  perish 
Never  !  —  whom  the  high  gods  cherish 

One  with  life  remain. 


MOTHER  MARY 

METHINKS  the  Blessed  was  content,  her  journey 

overpast, 
Amid  the  drowsy,  wondering  kine  on  lowly  bed 

to  lie : 
To  dream  in  pensive  thankfulness,  and  happy  days 

forecast, 

While  over  her  the  Star  of  Hope  waxed  brighter 
in  the  sky. 

And  yet,  methinks  in  Bethlehem  her  spirit  had  been 

lone 
But  for  the  tender  new-born  joy  that  in  her  arms 

she  bore,  — 

Ay,  even  though  with  gifts  of  gold  and  many  a  pre- 
cious stone 

Great  kings  had  knelt  with  shepherd-folk  about 
her  stable  door. 

But  every  mortal  mother's  heart  knows  its  Geth- 

semane  — 
That  lonelier  spot  whereto  no  star  the  light  of 

hope  may  bring  — 

Yet  even  in  the  darkest  hour,  amidst  her  agony, 
Each  still  remembers  Bethlehem,  and  hears  the 
angels  sing. 

So 


SO  YOU  LOVE  ME 

So  you  love  me,  have  no  care ; 
Mine  will  be  the  strength  to  dare 
Perils  that  without  your  love 
Greater  than  my  strength  might  prove. 
Never  any  knight  who  had 
Felt  your  touch  an  accolade, 
But  had  grown  more  brave,  more  true, 
Sweetheart !  sweetheart !  — 
Loved  by  you. 

In  your  chalice,  my  one  rose, 
All  earth's  fragrance  you  enclose  j 
Through  your  light,  my  one,  one  star, 
Heaven  draws  me  from  afar. 
Easy  were  it  to  lay  down 
All  things  save  your  love,  —  my  crown, 
And,  in  dying,  life  renew, 
Sweetheart !  sweetheart !  — 
Loved  by  you. 


THE  BAND  OF  THE   "TITANIC" 

"  These  are  the  immortal,  —  the  fearless."  —  Upanishads. 

UP,  lads !  they  say  we  Ve  struck  a  berg,  though 

there  's  no  danger  yet,  — 
Our  noble  liner  was  not  built  to  wreck !  — 
But  women  may  have  felt  a  shock  they  're  needing 

to  forget, 
And  when  there 's  trouble,  men  should  be  on  deck. 

Come  !  —  now  's  the  time !  They  're  wanting  us  to 

brighten  them  a  bit ; 
Play  up,  my  lads  —  as  lively  as  you  can  ! 
Give  them  a  merry  English  air  !  they  want  no  count- 
erfeit 
Like  that  down-hearted  tune  you  just  began ! . . . 

I  think  the  Captain  's  worried,  lads :  maybe  the 

thing 's  gone  wrong ; 

Well,  we  will  show  them  all  is  right  with  us ! 
Of  Drake  and  the  Armadas  now  we  '11  play  them 

such  a  song 
Shall  make  them  of  the  hero  emulous. 

When  boats  are  being  lowered,  lads,  your  place  and 
mine  are  here,  — 

52 


THE  BAND   OF  THE   "TITANIC"        53 

O  we  were  never  needed  more  than  now ! 
When  others  go,  it  is  for  us  those  left  behind  to 

cheer, 
And  I  am  glad,  my  lads,  that  we  know  how ! 

If  it  is  Death  that 's  calling  us,  we  '11  make  a  brave 

response ; 

Play  up,  play  up !  —  ye  may  not  play  again ; 
The  prize  that  Nelson  won  at  last,  the  chance  that 

comes  but  once, 
Is  ours,  my  lads  !  —  the  chance  to  die  like  men ! 


WINTER-SONG 

To  him  who  doth  remember, 

June  evermore  is  near : 
He  breathes  her  rose  amid  the  snows, 

And  still  he  seems  to  hear 
The  lark  from  wintry  fields  arise 
Into  the  blue  of  summer  skies. 

Both  April  and  December 
Time  doth  to  mortals  bring, 

But  in  the  seed,  for  future  need, 
Eternal  waits  the  spring; 

And  there  be  stars  that  never  set, 

For  him  who  knows  not  to  forget. 
54 


EROS 

I,  WHO  am  Love,  come  clothed  in  mystery, 
As  rose  my  beauteous  mother  from  the  Sea, 
Veiling  my  luminous  wings  from  mortal  sight  — 
Whether  at  noon  or  in  the  star-strewn  night  — 
That  I  may  pass  unrecognized  and  free. 

Ignoring  them  that  idly  seek  for  me, 
Unto  mine  own,  from  all  eternity 

I  come  with  heart  aflame  and  torch  alight  — 
I  who  am  Love ! 

What  bring  I  them  ?  Ah,  draughts  that  sweeter  be 
Than  welling  waters  of  Callirrhoe ! 

What  give  I  them  ?   Life  !  —  even  in  Death's  de- 
spite ; 

And  upward  still  I  lead  them  to  the  height 
Of  an  immortal  passion's  purity!  — 
I  who  am  Love. 
55 


DAWN 

IN  Orient  mystery 
Thou  veilest  thee, 

Pale  daughter  of  the  never-quenched  Light, 
Who  from  the  couch  of  Night 
By  swift-ascending  steeds  to  heaven  art  borne 
Ere  yet  thy  sister,  Morn, 
Awaking,  dons  her  wondrous  vesture  bright. 

Like  to  a  handmaid  lowly,  day  by  day 

Thou  dost  prepare  her  way  ; 

But  when  soft-trailing  saffron  and  warm  rose 

Half  hide  and  half  disclose 

Her  glowing  beauty  rare,  — 

When  living  things  her  sweet  breath  quaff, 

And  lift  their  heads  for  joy  of  her,  and  laugh, 

Thou  art  no  longer  there. 

Yet,  hours  there  be, 

Child  of  Hyperion,  sacred  to  thee, 

That  dearer  gifts  confer ; 

When  mortals  lay  before  thy  dim-lit  shrine 

A  thankfulness  of  worship  more  divine 

Than  any  offered  her : 

When,  after  night  distressful  spent  — 
Night  sleepless  and  intolerably  long, 
56 


DAWN  57 

( 

Comes  —  unexpected,  eloquent  — 

A  tentative,  faint  note  of  song  ! 

And  the  overwearied  watcher  sighs, 

And  lying  still,  with  tear-wet  eyes, 

Hearkens  the  most  celestial  lays 

Earth  knows ;  and  sees  Night's  curtains  drawn 

Slowly  aside,  and  whispers :  "  Dawn !  "  — 

Yearning  beholds  the  tender  gleam 

Of  Hope's  pale  star,  where  it  doth  beam 

Eternal  on  thy  brow, 

And  in  its  ray  composed  and  blest, 

Sinks  into  rest. 


THE  RETURN  OF  PROSERPINE 

To  welcome  her  the  Mother  wakes 

The  myriad  music  of  her  rills, 
And  trims  the  border  of  her  lakes 

With  sun-lit  daffodils : 
Softly  she  counterpanes  the  leas, 

With  primrose-bloom  bedecks  the  vales, 

While  answering  her  wooing  gales, 
Come  ruby-pied  anemones ; 
And  as  her  wintry  doubts  depart, 

And  brightening  hopes  foretell  the  morrow, 
Such  happiness  overflows  her  heart 

There  's  left  no  room  for  sorrow ! 
58 


A   SEEKER  IN  THE  NIGHT 

I  LIFT  my  eyes,  but  I  cannot  see  ; 

I  stretch  my  arms  and  I  cry  to  Thee,  — 

And  still  the  darkness  covers  me. 

Where  art  Thou?  In  the  chill  obscure 

I  wander  lonely,  and  endure 

A  yearning  only  Thou  can'st  cure ! 

Once  —  once,  indeed,  In  every  face 
I  seemed  thy  lineaments  to  trace 
And  looked  in  all  to  find  thy  grace  : 

I  thought  the  thrush  —  sweet  worshiper ! 
From  the  minaret  of  the  balsam-fir 
Hymned  forth  thy  praise,  my  soul  to  stir ; 

I  thought  the  early  roses  came 

To  lisp  in  fragrant  breaths  thy  name, 

And  teach  my  heart  to  do  the  same ; 

I  thought  the  stars  thy  candles,  Lord  !  — 
I  thought  the  skylark  as  he  soared 
Rose  to  thy  throne  and  Thee  adored  1 
59 


60  A  SEEKER  IN  THE   NIGHT 

But  now  a  labyrinth  I  wind, 

And  needing  more  thy  hand  to  find, 

Grope,  darkling,  Lord  !  —  for  I  am  blind ! 

Ah,  bridge  for  me  the  awful  vast, 
That  I  may  find  Thee  at  the  last !  — 
Then  draw  me  close,  and  hold  me  fast  I 


THROUGH  THE  WINDOW 

THROUGH  the  window  Love  looked  in 

For  an  instant  only, 
And  behold !  —  a  little  maid 

In  the  silence  lonely. 

At  his  glance,  her  lily  cheek 

Took  the  tint  of  roses, 
And  her  lips  soft  parted,  like 

A  bud  that  half  uncloses. 

Gentle  tremors  filled  her  breast, 

And  her  eyes  grew  tender 
With  a  something  wistful  that 

His  presence  seemed  to  lend  her. 

Ah,  't  was  strange !  Love  there  looked  in 

For  an  instant  only, 
Yet  the  lass,  so  lone  before, 

Seemed,  methought,  less  lonely. 
61 


POOR  ICARUS 

"  Galbraith  Rodgers,  acclaimed  the  world's  aviation  hero, 
after  an  ocean-to-ocean  flight  of  five  thousand  miles,  plunged 
to  his  death." 

POOR  Icarus  !  —  to  soar  so  high, 
Then  fall !  For  you  't  was  vain  to  try 

By  cunning  craft,  on  faithless  wings, 

To  capture  empyrean  things 
That  still  to  men  the  Fates  deny ! 

Yet,  even  knowing  Death  so  nigh, 
Had  you  reluctant  been  to  fly 

Beyond  earth's  sure,  safe  harborings,  — 
Poor  Icarus  ? 

I  think  not  so.  All,  all  must  die  ! 
But  you  the  pathways  of  the  sky 

Found  first,  and  tasted  heavenly  springs  — 
Unfettered  as  the  lark  that  sings  — 
And  knew  strange  raptures,  —  though  we  sigh : 
' ' Poor  Icarus!" 
62 


SECURE 

OUR  single  lives  are  circled  round 

By  an  embracing  sea ; 
Are  joined  to  all  that  has  been,  bound 

To  all  that  is  to  be ; 
The  past  and  future  meet  and  cross, 
And  in  life's  ocean  is  no  loss. 

We  know  there  is  no  loss  —  and  yet  — 
Dismayed,  perplexed,  — poor  dupes  of 

time  — 
We  see  youth  stricken  ere  its  prime, 

And  in  our  grief  forget ! 

But  pitying  Nature  takes  our  part : 

Slowly  she  heals  the  breaking  heart, 

And  Sorrow's  self  procures  us  gain  ; 

For  in  her  steps  ascending  higher, 
We  come,  at  last,  where  waits  nor  pain 

Nor  unfulfilled  desire,  — 
Finding  the  path  lit  from  above 
That  leads  from  love  —  to  Love ! 

Nothing  is  premature  with  God  : 

His  are  the  harvest-time  and  sowing, 
63 


SECURE 


The  seedling  nestled  in  the  sod, 
The  flower  in  beauty  blowing, 
The  languid  ebb,  the  eager  flow, 
The  pulse  of  spring,  the  brooding  snow. 


LINES  FOR  A  FIFTIETH  ANNIVERSARY 

GOLDEN  their  days  have  been,  for  love  is  golden  — 
Golden  as  sunshine  warm  with  life,  not  cold  ; 

Lighting  earth's  pathway  with  the  blessing  olden 
That  never  groweth  old. 

It  owns  no  Past;  a  help  divine  in  sorrow, 
A  strength  to  overmaster  each  annoy, 

Love  holds  the  faithful  promise  of  a  morrow, 
Immortal  in  its  joy ! 

65 


NO   MORE,  DEAR   HEART 

No  more,  dear  heart  —  no  more  I  moan 
The  loss  of  happiness,  your  gift  alone, 

For  quiet  thoughts  I  keep, 
And  in  the  lengthening,  grief-subduing  years, 
Have  lost  the  trick  and  sweet  distress  of  tears, 
I  smile  again  —  again,  ah  me  !    I  sleep, 
And  half  believe  my  heart  grown  cold, 
Till  other  happy  lovers  I  behold. 
66 


THE  MAN-SOUL 

HE  made  it  pure  — 

More  pure  than  deep-sea  water,  or  the  dew 
Distilled  in  mountain  hollows :  made  it  true 

As  heaven's  o'er-arching  blue, 
Or  as  that  orb  that  doth  the  main  secure,  — 
The  lonely  mariner's  guiding  cynosure. 

He  made  it  sweet 

As  lover's  lips  that  meet 
For  the  first  time,  with  tremulous  delight ; 
Or  as  the  tears  that  more  than  half  requite 
Their  pain  after  long  parting  :  made  it  brave, 

Fearless  of  wind  or  wave ; 
A  tameless  thing  with  aspiration  filled, 
That  dares  where  eagles  may  not  nest,  to  build ! 
67 


OMAR 

AN  epicure  in  Pleasure's  mart, 
Pursuing  mirth,  but  never  glad, 

With  melancholy  songs  his  heart 

He  soothed,  and  made  a  thousand  sad. 
68 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE  SPEAKS 

HAPPINESS  is  everywhere !  — 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
With  the  bloom  and  with  the  bee, 
With  the  bird  that  wingeth  free ! 
Happiness  is  everywhere  !  — 
And  it  binds  my  heart  to  thee. 

"  Everywhere  are  pain  and  woe  "  ? 
Ay,  beloved,  that  I  know : 
None  from  grief  is  wholly  free,  — 
It  doth  even  visit  me ! 
Yet  to  grief  I  something  owe, 
For  it  closer  binds  to  thee ! 

Laughter  have  we  shared  and  tears,  - 
Knowest  thou  which  more  endears  ? 
Tell  me  truly  !   I  would  be 
Wise  indeed  to  choose,  nor  flee 
Aught  in  all  the  gift  of  years 
That  would  bind  my  heart  to  thee ! 
69 


HEIMWEH 

THE  birds  returning  seem  so  glad 

As  from  the  South  they  come, 
They  teach  my  heart,  forlorn  and  sad, 

How  distant  is  my  home  : 
O'er  land  and  sea  wild  roaming  free, 

They  little  understand  — 
Glad  nomads  —  that  there  is  for  me 

One  home  —  one  only  Land  ! 

And  yonder  dancing  rivulet 

That  merrily  on  doth  go, 
Humming  a  tune  I  'd  fain  forget, 

Adds  something  to  my  woe  : 
Ah,  had  it  but  a  thought  for  me 

'T  would  either  now  be  dumb, 
Or  it  would  croon  a  melody 

Less  dear  to  me  at  home ! 

Fond  memories  of  days  of  yore  !  — 

My  heart  so  hungereth, 
The  smell  of  upland  clover  or 

The  dew-wet  violet's  breath 
Might  quickly  fill  it  with  delight; 

But  exiled  here  I  roam, 
And  dread,  beyond  all  else,  to-night, 

The  scents  that  speak  of  home ! 
70 


FOR  THE   BIRTHDAY   OF  WILLIAM 
DEAN   HOWELLS 

MARCH  i,  1912 

SEVENTY-FIVE  glad  years  of  blessing, 
And  the  hope  of  blessing  more; 

Memories  the  heart  caressing, 

Dreams  that  beckoning  wait,  before; 

Life  — full  life,  made  rich  by  giving: 

Life  that  can  create,  and  lend 
To  the  poor  —  delight  in  living, 

To  the  lonely  —  many  a  friend 

Wisdom  that  can  teach  through  laughter  — 

Seeming  but  to  entertain, 
Or  through  pathos  which,  thereafter, 

Leaves  no  dull,  regretful  pain; 

Years  of  blessing,  years  of  kindness, 
And  the  courage  that  can  smile 

Though  the  eyes  be  dim  to  blindness 
With  a  sorrow,  hid  the  while,  — 

These  are  thine,  thou  selfless  schemer, 

Chanter  of  brave  carmina : 
These  thy  gifts  to  us,  dear  dreamer,  — 

Traveler  from  Altruria. 


LOVE  AND  THE  CHILD 

LOVE  came  into  the  world,  and  said : 

"With  the  tender  infant  on  this  bed 

Shall  be  my  home ;  I  will  impart 

The  winning  graces  to  its  heart 

That  blessing  in  life's  pathway  spread." 

So — for  Love  crooned  its  lullabies-* 
His  own  smile  dawned  within  its  eyes, 
And  into  its  small  being  stole 
The  laughing  radiance  of  his  soul, 
And  all  its  eager  sympathies. 

Unconscious  as  the  flowers  that  bless  — 

A  tiny  flame  of  lovingness  — 
To  any  palm  it  gave  at  once 
A  dimpled  hand,  in  quick  response, 

Nor  what  "  a  stranger  "  meant  might  guess. 

That  to  distrust  is  often  well, 

It  heard  with  smile  ineffable. 
Then,  on  a  morn,  Love  came  to  say : 
"  Thou  child  of  mine,  come,  come  away, 

In  Paradise  to  dwell ! " 
72 


ON  FINDING  BUDDHA'S   DUST 

tl  One  hundred  million  people  will  experience  a  thrill  of 
religious  enthusiasm  at  the  recent  discovery  of  a  relic-casket 
near  Peshawar,  India,  containing  some  of  the  bones  of  Gau- 
tama Buddha." 

O  ASHES  of  Gautama,  once  the  shrine 
And  outer  temple  of  celestial  mind !  — 
Home  of  a  spirit,  pure  and  heavenly  kind, 

That  moved  by  human  sympathy  benign, 

Out-poured  itself,  like  sacrificial  wine, 

To  bring  a  light  of  hope  unto  the  blind,  — 
O  ashes  of  Gautama  !  earth  shall  find 

Naught  midst  her  buried  treasure  more  divine ! 

Though,  centuries  gone  by,  an  Emperor  sealed 
In  crystal  and  in  bronze  this  royal  dust, 
Time  may  uncover  it  through  waste  and  rust; 
But  while  man's  heart  to  aught  shall  homage  give, 

Gautama's  love,  through  sacrifice  revealed, 
Eternal  as  that  heart  itself  shall  live ! 
73 


IN  A  TENEMENT 

I  THINK  our  alley 's  darker  now 

Since  once  I  went  away — 
I  can't  exactly  tell  you  how  — 

In  a  strange  place  to  play 
With  other  children  like  myself, 

A  whole  long  summer's  day ! 

It  was  n't  really  there,  I  'm  sure  — 

That  place  so  strange  to  me, 
For  nobody  was  cold  or  poor : 

It  just  was  green,  and  free, 
And  up  above  there  seemed  of  blue 

A  million  miles  to  be. 

The  fairies  live  there  !  —  little  Ruth 

The  lame  girl  told  me  so : 
Yes ;  and  I  know  it  for  a  truth 

That  there  the  fairies  go, 
And  cover  over  all  the  trees 

With  flowers  white  as  snow. 

The  flowers  made  in  Fairyland 

Have  breath  —  oh,  breath  that 's  sweet ! 
74 


IN   A   TENEMENT  75 

( 

For  once  I  held  them  in  my  hand  — 

Far  off  from  this  dull  street !  — 
And  looked  down  in  their  hearts  and  saw 

The  tracks  of  fairy  feet. 

I  dream  at  night  of  that  strange  place, 

And  in  my  dream,  quite  near, 
They  dance  about  before  my  face,  — 

The  fairies  kind  and  dear  ; 
And,  oh,  I  want  to  go  to  them ! 

You  see,  they  can't  come  here. 


DIVINATION 

How  do  you  know  the  Spring  is  nigh, 

Heart,  my  heart  ? 
Is  it  a  something  in  the  sky  ? 
Is  it  a  perfume  wafted  by  ? 
Or  is  it  your  own  longing's  cry  — 

Heart,  my  heart  ? 

Oh,  yes,  I  know  you  Ve  ways  to  tell, 

Heart,  my  heart, 

When  Spring  released  from  Winter's  spell 
Sows  amaranth  and  asphodel : 
Ways  tender  and  impalpable, 

Heart,  my  heart : 

Signs  that  have  never  yet  betrayed, 

Heart,  my  heart :  — 
The  bluebird's  note  in  a  leafless  glade, 
An  answering  rapture,  half  afraid, 
The  dream-filled  eyes  of  a  shy,  sweet  maid,- 

Heart,  my  heart ! 
76 


IN  MODERN  BONDS 

EARLY  and  late,  one  day  but  as  another, 
One  night  —  one  dreary  night,  like  to  its  brother 
Silent  and  songless,  empty  of  desire,  — 
A  numbness  after  unremitting  tire,  — 
So,  in  a  vicious  circle  bound  alway, 
From  light  to  darkness  and  from  night  to  day 
I  move :  a  thing  mechanical,  I  ween, 
As  this  my  comrade  here  —  this  vast  machine 
Which  seems  more  of  me  than  my  blood  and  bone; 
Which  more  doth  own  me  than  my  God  doth  own. 

For  what  of  difference  is  'twixt  it  and  me 
Lies  in  myself  a  vague  and  nameless  sorrow, 
Baffling  and  barren  as  the  flickering  gleam 
Of  starlight  fallen  on  a  frozen  stream, 
Holding  no  ray  of  promise  for  a  morrow 
Whose  moments,  as  they  come  and  go,  must  be  — 
For  one  who  welcomes  nor  the  night  nor  morn, 
Whose  weariness  scarce  knows  itself  forlorn  — 
But  portions  of  a  dull,  unwished  eternity. 
77 


AN   IDLE   DITTY 

'T  is  I  have  been  waiting  to  know,  dear, 
The  day  that  ye'r  ship  would  come  in, 

For  if  I  'm  to  love  ye  at  all,  dear, 
I  'm  thinking  it 's  time  to  begin. 

The  mavis  is  singing  hard  by,  dear, 
The  hedges  are  white  wi'  the  may, 

And  there  's  never  a  cloud  i'  the  sky,  dear, 
To  hinder  a  ship  on  its  way. 

Ye  Ve  told  me  o'  castles  a  many, 

And  though  they  're  but  castles  in  Spain, 

I  surely  were  better  in  any 

Wi7  you,  than  alone  wi'  my  pain ! 

The  mavis  that  Js  close  to  her  mate,  dear, 

For  no  castle  would  part  wi'  her  nest, 
And  the  ship  that  brings  you,  though  it 's  late, 

dear, 

Brings  me  what  is  worth  all  the  rest ! 
78 


FATHER 

How  should  I  dream  but  you  were  old 

Who  seemed  so  strangely  wise  ? 
The  truth,  had  I  the  truth  been  told, 

Had  filled  me  with  surprise  ; 
But  now  that  you  are  gone,  alas  i 

Beyond  Death's  voiceless  sea, 
Still,  as  your  birthdays  come  and  pass, 

You  younger  grow  to  me. 
79 


IN   DREAMLAND 

IN  dreamland  is  a  castle  fair 
Wherein  my  love  doth  dwell : 

Its  turrets  waver  into  air 
From  fields  where  asphodel 

And  poppy  keep  not  watch,  but  sleep, 
'Neath  an  enchanter's  spell. 

Pale  offspring  of  a  starlit  sky, 
One  rose  —  for  need  like  mine  — 

Has  over-climbed  the  ivies  high, 
About  her  sill  to  twine, 

And  there,  abloom,  with  rare  perfume 
Makes  exquisite  her  shrine. 

Still,  night  by  night,  the  wondrous  bird 

That  ne'er  is  heard  by  day, 
Thrills,  with  my  heart's  unspoken  word, 

Those  mystic  turrets  gray, 
And  heavened  above,  sings  to  my  love 

His  plaintive  roundelay. 

Ah,  would  that  I,  through  tender  gloom 
Upmounting,  lover-wise, 
80 


IN   DREAMLAND  81 

Might  find  her  in  the  fragrant  room,  — 

Her  virgin  Paradise,  — 
But  for  one  night  behold  the  light 

Beam  in  her  charmed  eyes  ! 

Alas  !  I  shall  nor  lead  her  down 

The  steep  and  skyey  stair, 
Nor  find  her  here  in  the  dull  town, 

The  sunlight  on  her  hair,  — 
Vet,  could  we  meet,  my  heart  would  greet 

And  know  her  anywhere ! 


TO  THE    AUTHOR    OF   "MADAME 
BUTTERFLY  " 

ON   SEEING    THE   OPERA 

POET,  it  was  your  soul  created  her : 

Yours  was  the  vision  lovely  and  supreme, 
Yours  the  appealing,  high-imagined  theme, 

That  like  a  breath  of  attar-rose  or  myrrh, 

Piercing  the  sense,  made  Art  her  worshiper  — 
Made  heavenly  Music  long  to  be,  and  seem, 
A  part  of  the  impassionating  dream, 

An  added  accent,  beauty  to  confer. 

And  Music  to  that  service,  as  desired, 
Brought  lofty  harmonies  —  so  love  inspired  — 

And  melodies  as  pure  as  they  are  sweet ; 
Yet  't  is  the  soul  of  Cio-Cio-San  alone, 
Untouched  by  any  genius  but  your  own, 

That  makes  the  charm  so  lasting,  so  complete, 
82 


THE  LOVE  OF  LIFE 

"  MY  son  is  dead  !  "  the  aged  woman  wailed, 
"  My  son,  who  was  the  only  help  I  had ! 
My  good,  good  son  is  dead  —  my  faithful  lad 

Who  ne'er  in  duty  to  his  mother  failed !  " 

Eager  to  comfort  her  distress,  I  spoke 

Words  that  have  solaced  many  a  soul  bereaved 
Since  kingly  David  uttered  them  when,  grieved, 

First  to  its  final  loss  his  heart  awoke. 

"  Though  he,  indeed,  shall  not  to  you  return, 
Yet,  sorrowing  mother,  you  shall  go  to  him. 
Lo,  even  now,  your  lamp  of  life  burns  dim, 

And  you  may  find  him  soon  for  whom  you  yearn  ! " 

Sudden  the  tears  ceased  on  that  face  of  woe 
As  the  poor  creature  turned  my  words  to  meet, 
And    sighed,    to    my   amaze :  — "  Still,  life    is 

sweet !  " 

Then  I  perceived  she  had  no  wish  to  go. 
83 


A  NARROW  WINDOW 

A  NARROW  window  may  let  in  the  light, 
A  tiny  star  dispel  the  gloom  of  night, 
A  little  deed  a  mighty  wrong  set  right. 

A  rose,  abloom,  may  make  a  desert  fair, 
A  single  cloud  may  darken  all  the  air, 
A  spark  may  kindle  ruin  and  despair. 

A  smile,  and  there  may  be  an  end  to  strife ; 
A  look  of  love,  and  Hate  may  sheathe  the 

knife ; 

A  word  —  ah,  it  may  be  a  word  of  life ! 
84 


THE  LOST  GIOCONDA 

THE  world  is  poorer,  Italy's  fair  child, 

Lacking  the  face 
That  for  so  long  its  heart  beguiled ; 

Nor  hopeth  to  replace 
With  all  its  riches  multiplied, 
Thee,  eloquent,  alone,  art-glorified ! 

But  somewhere,  Mona  Lisa !  quietly, 

With  folded  hands, 
And  in  thine  eye's  soft  mockery 

The  look  that  understands, 
Thou  wearest,  lost  to  us  the  while, 
Thine  own  inscrutable,  unaging  smile ! 
85 


TO  ALICE   MEYNELL 

I  MARVEL  not  that  they  have  loved  you  so  — 

The  gifted  ones  who  knew  you ; 
Gazing  upon  your  face,  I  know 

Why  poet  and  why  painter  drew  you ; 
Perceive  the  mystic  thing  divine 
That  brought  their  hearts   to  worship  at  your 
shrine  ! 

How  much  the  eyes  are  windows  to  the  soul 
Your  poet  eyes  have  taught  me,  — 

Those  shadowed  orbs  that  seem  the  goal 

Of  all  that  fairest  dreams  have  brought  me,  — 

And,  in  their  depths  revealing  you, 

Win  from  my  heart  a  tender  homage,  too. 
86 


THE  SUMMER-TIME  IS   IN  THE  ROSE 

THE  summer-time  is  in  the  rose ; 

JT  is  but  to  breathe  once  more 
The  perfume  that  its  leaves  enclose 

The  summer  to  restore. 
But  how  should  summer  bloom  for  him 

Who  must  its  rose  resign  ? 
A  winter,  changeless  in  his  heart, 

Repeats  :  —  "  Not  mine  !  —  not  mine  !  " 

Ah,  sorrowful  to  give  in  vain  — 

To  love  when  hope  is  not ! 
To  cover  with  a  smile  the  pain 

That  will  not  be  forgot ! 
To  journey  to  a  living  spring 

Of  water,  welling  sweet,  — 
To  long  as  with  a  desert  thirst, 

Yet  turn  away  the  feet ! 
87 


THEY  TOLD  ME 

THEY  told  me :  "  Pan  is  dead  —  Nature  is 

dead  : 

There  is  no  God."  I  read 
The  words  of  Socrates,  and  then  I  read 
Of  Jesus  ;  and  I  said  :  — 
"  Divinity  's  not  dead !  " 

Good  can  nor  poisoned  be 
Nor  slain  upon  a  tree : 
The  soul  of  good,  escaping,  still  is  free, 
And  in  its  ministry 
Lives  God  eternally. 
88 


TO  R.  R. 

ON   REREADING  THE    "  DE  PROFUNDIS  "   OF   OSCAR 
WILDE 

HE  stood  alone,  despairing  and  forsaken : 
Alone  he  stood,  in  desolation  bare  j 

From  him  avenging  powers  e'en  hope  had  taken : 
He  looked,  —  and  thou  wast  there ! 

Why  hadst  thou  come  ?    Not  profit,  no :  nor 

pleasure, 

Nor  any  faint  desire  of  selfish  gain, 
Had  moved  thee,  giving  of  thy  heart's  pure 

treasure, 
To  share  a  culprit's  pain. 

In  that  drear  place,  as  thou  hadst  lonely  waited 
To  greet  with  noble  friendship  one  who  came 

Handcuffed  from  prison,  pointed  at,  and  hated, 
Bowed  low  in  mortal  shame, 

No  thought  hadst  thou  of  any  special  merit, 
So  simple,  natural,  seemed  that  action  fine 

Which  kept  alive,  in  a  despairing  spirit, 
The  spark  of  the  divine, 
89 


90  TO   R.  R. 

And  taught  a  dying  soul  that  love  is  deathless, 
Even  as  when  its  holiest  accents  fell 

Upon  a  woman's  heart  who  listened,  breathless, 
By  a  Samarian  well. 


FAIRER  THAN  VIOLETS   ARE 

FAIRER  than  violets  are 

That  blossom  in  the  virgin  Spring, 
More  sweet  than  the  song  of  birds 

When  first  of  love  they  sing, 
A  gift  of  pure  and  perfect  worth, 
She  came  to  this  our  darkened  earth 

A  smile  of  God  to  bring : 

She  came  that  we  might  lay 

Our  griefs,  submissive,  'neath  the  sod; 
She  came  that  light  might  beam 

From  every  path  she  trod ; 
She  came  that  memory  might  confer 
Blessing  and  hope,  for,  knowing  her, 

We  know  the  love  of  God. 
91 


EAGLES 
GIBERT'S  BATTLE  FOR  THE  AIR 

IT  rose,  and  swam  into  the  sky  — 

The  man-made  bird ; 
And  the  great  Eagle  saw  it  fly  — 

Saw  it,  and  heard 

The  whirring  of  its  plumeless  wings,  — 
The  bird  that  mounts  and  soars,  but  never 
sings ! 

The  falcon-eyes  that  face  the  sun 

Blinked  on  the  flight 
Of  the  dread  creature  that  had  won 

The  unwelcome  right 
To  leave  its  native  earth,  and  dare 
Intrude  upon  the  monarch  of  the  Air ! 

As  moved  the  monoplane,  the  man, 

Strange  soul  of  it, 
Sailing  the  sea  cerulean, 

The  whole  of  it 

Seemed  his ;  ay,  subject  to  his  sway. 
Then  he  beheld  —  an  Eagle  in  his  way ! 

Awed,  each  upon  the  other  gazed 
A  moment's  space, 
92 


EAGLES  93 

When  sudden-swooping  talons  grazed 

The  pale  man  face, 

As  the  fierce  earn,  there,  mid  the  skies 
Struck  with  blind  fury  at  his  rival's  eyes. 

Up-fluttering,  the  feathered  king 

Plunged  down  again. 
His  rushing  anger  seemed  to  bring 

Fate  nearer ;  then 

The  man-bird  knew  the  moment's  strife 
Not  for  supremacy  alone,  but  life  ! 

With  nerve  that  grows,  in  peril,  great, 

He  toward  him  drew 
A  thing  to  strengthen  him  with  Fate ; 

Whence  instant  flew 
A  winged  death,  and  far  behind 
Headlong  the  Eagle  fell,  the  abyss  to  find. 


Thy  fight  was  over,  glorious  bird  !  — 

Thy  scornful  strength, 
Which  the  sky's  sovereignty  conferred, 

Subdued  at  length,  — 
An  autumn  leaf  against  the  wind, 
In  conflict  with  a  greater  power  —  called 
Mind! 


BASE-BORN 

MY  parents  had  great  joy,  I  wis, 

Of  their  young  days  of  love. 
In  thought  they  were  as  deathless  gods, 

Mere  human  laws  above : 
As  deathless  gods  !  But  I  ?  —  alas  ! 

Of  joy  what  can  I  tell  ? 
Who  am  but  as  a  broken  vase 

Beside  a  brimming  well. 

My  parents  in  each  other's  eyes 

Beheld  the  heavenly  stars, 
And  found  in  one  another's  arms 

The  bliss  that  heaven  unbars  : 
They  vowed  when  pleasure  brimmed  the 
cup 

None  should  resist  its  spell : 
They  quaffed,  —  and  emptied  me  of  joy, 

Beside  life's  brimming  well ! 
94 


THE  MORNING  GLORY 

WAS  it  worth  while  to  paint  so  fair 

Thy  every  leaf  —  to  vein  with  faultless  art 

Each  petal,  taking  the  boon  light  and  air 
Of  summer  so  to  heart  ? 

To  bring  thy  beauty  unto  perfect  flower, 
Then,  like  a  passing  fragrance  or  a  smile, 

Vanish  away,  beyond  recovery's  power  — 
Was  it,  frail  bloom,  worth  while  ? 

Thy  silence  answers :  "  Life  was  mine ! 

And  I,  who  pass  without  regret  or  grief, 
Have  cared  the  more  to  make  my  moment  fine, 

Because  it  was  so  brief. 

"  In  its  first  radiance  I  have  seen 

The  sun !  —  why  tarry  then  till  comes  the  night  ? 
I  go  my  way,  content  that  I  have  been 
Part  of  the  morning  light !  " 
95 


A  LOVER'S   "  LITANY  TO   PAN" 

BY  the  germinating  seed 
And  the  blossoming  of  the  weed, 
By  the  fruitage  that  doth  feed,  — 
Oh,  hear ! 

By  the  light's  reviving  kiss, 
By  the  law  that  wakes  to  bliss 
Butterfly  from  chrysalis, 
Oh,  hear ! 

By  the  raptures  of  the  Spring, 
And  the  myriad  flowers  that  bring 
Incense  at  her  feet  to  fling, 
Oh,  hear ! 

By  the  water-lily  shrine 
And  the  syrinx  that  is  thine, 
By  its  melodies  divine, 
Oh,  hear  ! 

By  the  fragrance  of  the  glade, 
By  thy  slumber  in  the  shade 
And  thy  bed,  of  mosses  made, 
Oh,  hear  I 
96 


A  LOVER'S   "LITANY  TO   PAN"         97 

By  the  budding  mysteries 
And  leafy  glory  of  the  trees,  — 
By  the  human  eye  that  sees, 
Oh,  hear ! 

By  the  wistful  hopes  that  throng 
To  thy  chantry  of  sweet  song, 
By  our  power  to  love  and  long, 
Oh,  hear ! 

By  the  dawning's  tender  beam, 
By  the  twilight's  westering  gleam, 
By  the  soul's  enduring  dream, 
Oh,  hear ! 

By  the  summer's  ardent  quest, 
And  the  balm  of  winter  rest,  — 
By  the  calm  of  Nature's  breast, 
Oh,  hear ! 

By  the  wonder  of  thy  plan, 
By  thy  boundless  gifts  to  man,  — 
By  thy  deathless  self,  great  Pan ! 
Oh,  hear! 


THE  "  TITANIC  "  —  AFTERMATH 

O  NATURE  !  overmastered  by  thy  power, 

Man  is  a  hero  still 

And  knighthood  is  in  flower ! 

All  save  his  tameless  will 

Thou  can'st  subdue  by  thine  appalling  might; 

But  failest  utterly  to  quench  his  spirit's  light. 

Yea,  though  he  seem,  in  conflict  with  thy  strength, 

A  pygmy  of  the  dust, 

Heroic  man,  at  length 

Greater  than  thou,  through  trust, 

Sovereign  through  something  thou  can'st  not  en- 
slave, 

Finds  once  again,  in  death,  the  life  he  scorned  to 
save! 


KEATS 

BY  the  pyramid  of  Caius  Sestius, 

Unmarked  for  honour  or  remembrance  save 

By  a  meek  epitaph,  there  is  a  grave 
For  sake  of  which,  o'er  oceans  perilous, 
As  to  a  shrine,  uncounted  pilgrims  come  ; 

Each  bringing  tribute  unto  one  who  gave 

Life    beauty,  —  the  one   thing   man   still    must 

crave, 
Though  worshiping  from  far,  with  passion  dumb. 

The  Eternal  City  by  the  Tiber  holds, 

In  the  broad  view  of  Buonarotti's  dome,  — 
With  all  its  treasure,  —  naught  that  is  more  dear 

Than  the  low  mound  that  easefully  enfolds 
The  English  poet  who  lies  buried  here 

By  the  pyramid  outside  the  walls  of  Rome. 
99 


THE  WHITE-THROATED   SPARROW 

"  When  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  n 

WOULD  you  feel  the  witching  spell 

Of  the  whitethroat,  listen  ! 
There  are  secrets  he  can  tell 
Of  the  marsh,  and  of  the  dell 
.  Where  the  dewdrops  glisten. 

Poet  of  the  brooding  pine 

And  the  feathery  larches, 
Dawn-lit  summits  seem  to  shine, 
Lucent  in  each  throbbing  line, 

Under  azure  arches. 

All  his  soul  a  floating  song,  — 
Sweet,  too  sweet  for  sadness,  — 

At  his  bidding,  hither  throng 

Memories  that  make  us  long 
With  a  plaintive  gladness. 

Ah,  were  all  the  woodland  bare, 
Should  those  notes  but  quiver, 

Straight  I  'd  see  it  budding  fair !  — 

And  the  lilies  would  be  there, 
Floating  on  the  river ! 


A  CATHEDRAL 
ALL  SAINTS'  DAY  IN  THE  GREAT  NORTH  WOODS 

It  rises  by  a  frozen  mere, 
With  nave  and  transepts  of  the  pines 
That  towering  mid  the  snows  appear 
Majestic  and  sublime ; 
While,  with  a  myriad  fair  designs 
Of  feathery-tufted  tracery, 
Their  tops  adorn  with  silver  rime 
The  azure  vault's  immensity. 

Rock-piled,  the  altar  to  the  East 
Lies  argent-spread  ;  on  either  hand  — 
Meek  servers  at  the  lonely  feast  — 
Surpliced  and  tall  the  birches  stand, 
Like  ghostly  acolytes ; 
And  through  ice-mailed  branches  pass, 
Prismatic  from  celestial  heights, 
The  tints  of  mediaeval  glass. 

Awed,  as  in  no  cathedral  raised 
By  human  thought,  alone,  and  still, 
I  muse  on  one  who  dying  praised 
The  God  of  Being,  here  : 
101 


102  A  CATHEDRAL 

On  him  who  welcomed  with  a  will 
The  gift  of  life,  the  boon  of  death,  — 
The  while  he  heard,  deep-toned  and  near, 
The  solemn  forest's  organ-breath.1 

1  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  at  Saranac. 


THE  CHOSEN 

DEATH  pitying  stood  before  one  bent  and  old, 
And  said  :  —  "  Forbear  your  griefs,  and  go  with 
me : 

The  tale  of  your  misfortunes  —  all  is  told, 
And  I  am  come  at  last  to  set  you  free." 

But,  lo  !  the  man  fell  trembling  to  his  knees, 
Affrighted,  and  entreating  in  sad  plight :  — 

"  Though  poverty  and  pain  deny  me  ease, 
Yet  spare  me  !  —  but  a  day —  a  single  night ! " 

Then  Death,  disdaining  misery  so  base, 

Turned,  silently,  and  sought  whom  life  held  dear. 

He  found  you,  my  beloved !  in  the  place 
You  glorified,  and  touched  you  with  his  spear ; 

And  as  one  startled  wakes  from  a  fair  dream 
He  fain  would  dream  again,  if  that  might  be, 

You  looked  on  Death  clothed  in  his  might  supreme, 
And  gave  yourself  to  him,  —  forgetting  me. 

All  beauteous  in  the  blossom-time  of  youth, 
Ere  yet  a  cloud  your  radiance  could  dim,  — 

You  knew  him  for  God's  messenger,  in  truth, 
And  like  an  angel,  went  away  with  him. 
103 


THE  SONG  THAT   IS   FORGOT 

TIME,  like  to  sand  from  out  the  glass,  unceasing 

flows  away ; 
Then  wherefore  deem  to-morrow  more  worth  than 

yesterday  ? 
The  fairest  rose  the  future  knows  Time  darkling 

will  entomb 
With  the  rose  that  breathed  in  Persia,  long  since, 

its  rare  perfume. 

If  sands  of  time,  effacing,  flow,  then  what  —  ah, 

what  of  fame  ? 
Nothing  is  lost  that  blesses  the  hour  to  which  it 

came; 
Nay,  questioning  heart,  which  gave  it  most  the  world 

itself  knows  not  — 
The  song  that  is  remembered,  the  song  that  is 

forgot. 

104 


AGAINST  THE  GATE  OF  LIFE 

TO   HELEN   KELLER 

As  mute  against  the  gate  of  life  you  sit, 

Longing  to  open  it, 

Full  oft  you  must  behold,  in  thought,  a  maid 
With  banner  white,  whose  lilies  do  not  fade, 

And  armor  glory  lit. 

Across  the  years,  darkling,  you  still  must  see, 

In  the  hush  of  memory, 

Her  whom  no  wrong  of  Fate  could  make  afraid  — 
Of  all  the  maidens  of  the  world,  The  Maid! — 

In  her  brave  purity. 

For  she,  like  you,  was  singly  set  apart, 

O  high  and  lonely  heart !  — 
And  hearkened  Voices,  silent  save  to  her, 
And  looked  on  visions  she  might  not  transfer 

By  any  loving  art,  — 

Knew  the  dread  chill  of  isolation,  when 

Life  darkened  to  her  ken ; 

Yet  could  not  know,  as  round  her  closed  the  night, 
How  radiant  and  far  would  shine  her  light,  — 

A  miracle  to  men ! 
105 


A  REALM  OF  WONDER1 

Far  off  there  is  a  realm  of  wonder,  — 

Know  you  its  name  ? 
No  region  the  wide  heavens  under 

Could  be  the  same ! 
Dark  orange  groves  it  hath,  and  alleys 

With  sunlit  verdure  covered  over, 
High-mounting  hills,  great  river  valleys 

Enriched  by  crops  of  maize  and  clover  : 
A  Land  apart,  from  all  asunder,  — 

Know  you  its  name? 

Walls  hath  it  —  two.     One  —  of  the  mind, 
To  the  outside  world  forever  blind, 
Itself  within  itself  hath  still  confined ; 

Wherefore  its  brooding  and  exclusive  spirit 
Craves  but  for  progress  in  experience  sown, 
Noiseless  as  Nature's  own ; 

And  with  that  reverence  it  doth  inherit, 
Hearkens  obediently  its  sages, 
Mysteriously  wise  from  distant  ages, 

And  with  unconscious,  tireless  sacrifice 

Creates  a  paradise. 

1  See  "La  Cite  Chinoise"  of  Eugene  Simon. 
1 06 


A   REALM   OF   WONDER  107 

A  paradise  you  say, 

Stretching  away  —  and  endlessly  away !  — 

A  garden  —  lovelily  abloom 
With  rice  and  silk  and  tea, 
Cotton  and  yam  and  wheat,  all  fair  to  see, 

And  breathing  forth  an  exquisite  perfume 
Of  mingled  mulberry  and  orange-blows, 
Azalea  and  rose : 

A  garden,  yet  a  tomb 
Where  myriads,  sleeping,  are  remembered  still 

By  myriads  more,  who  glad  their  precepts  keep, 

And  honour  them  in  sleep. 

What  centuries  of  industry  speak  here ! 
What  irrigating  waters,  silver-clear, 
Skirting  the  uplands,  rise,  tier  above  tier ! 

What  thronged  canals,  through  the  Delta  plain 

extending 
Hundreds  of  miles ! 

What  junks,  what  bankside  villages  unending, 
What  cottages  with  brown  and  green  roof-tiles ! 
What  fanes !  what  wildwood  temples  without 

cease ! 
What  unperturbed  tranquility !  what  peace ! 

Far  off  there  is  a  realm  of  wonder,  — 

Know  you  its  name  ? 
No  region  the  wide  heavens  under 

Could  be  the  same !  — 


io8  A  REALM   OF   WONDER 

So  calm,  productive,  full  of  beauty  ; 
Unto  contentment  so  inviting  ! 

A  Land,  through  service  and  through  duty, 
The  past  and  future  so  uniting 

That  Death  itself  may  not  them  sunder !  — 
Know  you  its  name  ? 

Back  of  the  centuries  its  birth-hour  lonely 

Men  vainly  seek : 
Of  its  beginnings  legend  only 

And  myth  may  speak  : 
Ere  Greece  of   beauty  dreamed,  or  Rome  of 

power, 

In  some  mysterious,  unrecorded  hour, 
Darkling  from  hushed  obscurity  it  sprung 
When  the  Nile  gods  and  the  Vedas  yet  were 
young. 


IMMORTAL 

How  living  are  the  dead ! 
Enshrined,  but  not  apart, 
How  safe  within  the  heart 
We  hold  them  still  —  our  dead, 
Whatever  else  be  fled! 

Our  constancy  is  deep 

Toward  those  who  lie  asleep, 

Forgetful  of  the  strain  and  mortal  strife 

That  are  so  large  a  part  of  this  our  earthly  life. 

They  are  our  very  own  : 

From  them  —  from  them  alone, 

Nothing  can  us  estrange  — 

Nor  blight  autumnal,  no  ;  nor  wintry  change  ! 

The  midnight  moments  keep 
A  place  for  them ;  and  though  we  wake  to  weep, 
They  are  beside  us  :  still,  in  joy,  in  pain  — 
In  every  crucial  hour,  they  come  again, 
Angelic  from  above  — 
Bearing  the  gifts  of  blessing  and  of  love  — 
Until  the  shadowy  path  they  lonely  trod 
Becomes  for  us  a  bridge  that  upward  leads  to  God. 
109 


O   GIORNO  FELICE! 

MY  store  is  spent ;  I  am  fain  to  borrow : 

Give  me  to  drink  of  a  vintage  fine  ! 
Pour  me  a  draught  —  a  draught  of  To-morrow, 

Brimming  and  fresh  from  a  rock-cool  shrine  : 
Nectar  of  earth, 
For  the  longing  and  dearth 
Of  a  heart  still  young, 
That  waiteth  and  waiteth  a  song  unsung ! 

Glad  be  the  strain ! 

In  the  cup  pour  no  pain : 

Leave  at  the  brim  not  a  taste  of  sorrow ! 

Spring  would  I  sing !  For  the  bird  flies  free, 

The  sap  is  astir  in  the  oldest  tree, 
And  the  Maiden  weaves, 
'Mid  a  laughter  of  leaves, 

The  bud  and  the  blossom  of  joys  to  be ! 

Ay,  Winter  took  all ; 
But  I  heard  the  Spring  call, 
And  my  heart,  denied, 
With  a  rapturous  shiver  — 

Like  that  that  makes  eager  the  pulse  of  the  river 
When  something  at  last  tells  it  Winter  is  past  — 
no 


O   GIORNO   FELICE!  in 

Awoke  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  replied. 

A  libation  to  Spring !  —  ah,  quickly !  pour  fast ! 
She  is  there !  She  is  here  !  —  in  the  sky  —  on  the 

sea  — 
In  the  Morning-Land  waiting  my  heart  and  me ! 


DREAM  THE  GREAT  DREAM 

DREAM  the  Great  Dream,  though  you  should  dream 
—  you,  only, 

And  friendless  follow  in  the  lofty  quest. 
Though  the  dream  lead  you  to  a  desert  lonely, 

Or  drive  you,  like  the  tempest,  without  rest, 
Yet,  toiling  upward  to  the  highest  altar, 

There  lay  before  the  gods  your  gift  supreme,  — 
A  human  heart  whose  courage  did  not  falter 
.   Though  distant  as  Arcturus  shone  the  Gleam. 

The  Gleam  ?  —  Ah,  question  not  if  others  see  it, 

Who  nor  the  yearning  nor  the  passion  share ; 
Grieve  not  if  children  of  the  earth  decree  it  — 

The  earth,  itself,  —  their  goddess,  only  fair ! 
The  soul  has  need  of  prophet  and  redeemer : 

Her  outstretched  wings   against  her  prisoning 

bars, 
She  waits  for  truth ;  and  truth  is  with  the  dreamer, — 

Persistent  as  the  myriad  light  of  stars ! 
112 


ttibetfifce 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .  S   .  A 


14  DAY  USE 

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